Being Supported
Somewhat difficult therapy session tonight. I was talking about how I wished I could see myself the way other people do, be it artistically, professionally, or personally. That I hear people compliment me or reassure me that I’m doing something well, and all I can think is, “Yeah, but I’m faking it. I don’t actually know what I’m doing.”
Laura, my therapist, said that that’s what being in your twenties is all about. In your teens, you don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but you don’t know you don’t know. In your twenties, you don’t know what you’re doing, but you know you don’t know. (I’m pretty sure there’s a George Carlin bit that starts off like this.)
That makes a lot of sense, but doesn’t exactly make it any easier to deal with.
I also feel like, after a brief period where some things did feel stable and smooth, I’m surrounded by a life where nothing feels stable or easy right now. I want so badly for something, anything, to feel like it can just handle itself without constant hand-holding and babysitting, particularly because I don’t feel remotely qualified to do that hand-holding or babysitting. (Which goes back to the first point, that I’d like to feel as comportment as people seem to think I am.)
What this all came around to was Laura saying, “Well, you keep doing this!” (We have what I honestly think is a really solid therapeutic relationship, meaning she’s allowed to call me on when I’m being stupid, and does so.) “You get yourself over-stressed with commitments – whether or not they’re valid – and then you don’t turn to the people in your life who can provide support.”
And she’s right: I have such a hard time saying, “I’m having a hard time right now, and could really use some help.” Of dropping commitments – real or imaginary – and giving myself some time. Of not feeling horrible and guilty when I do drop commitments. But I’d like to think I’m getting better.
Indeed, I just got back from hanging out with some friends, who I was able to call and say, “I could really use some support.” And you know what? The world didn’t collapse, they didn’t reject me, and at the end of the night I do feel better. Laughing (and drinking) about the ridiculousness of friends, relationships, and sex will do that.
(And, if you’re reading this, J, you’re still wrong. My boobs are not huge.)
Themocracy
Yes they are.
I don’t understand how you can come from the family you do and think my boobs are anything to write home about…
[...] been in this inescapable funk all week, and I’m not sure how to escape. As I mentioned, I don’t feel like I have many safe spaces or harbors to where I can retreat right now. [...]